by Ted Riccardi
“Shakespeare was quite right, Watson,” said Holmes. “A foul odor inevitably surrounds the pearl. The discovery of no other gem causes such a stench, and it is difficult to convey the odor produced by some twenty million sea animals rotting in the tropical sun, covered by large swarms of bluebottle flies and their maggots gnawing away at the sweet, rotting flesh. But this is the method chosen by the native pearl fishers and sanctioned by our agents, for the entire process is in Government’s hands. Somewhere in that disgusting jelly, I thought, a human hand had entered and found to its great surprise the object of my journey. Now I had to find it once again.”
From the rotting shore to the long line of pearl merchants was but a few feet. The shops were no more than lean-tos, sometimes no more than a large umbrella under which the jeweller sat to block the heat of the sun. It was there that the pearl fishers brought their share of the harvest, selling it to the dealers who drill the pearls, transforming them into the things of beauty that grace the heads and shoulders of the rich. No more varied group of faces could be found anywhere, for the merchants and their agents came from every civilised country. Holmes found himself accosted at every turn by hands extended, offering every conceivable size and shape of pearl Overcome by the stench and the heat, and tired of repulsing the touts and purveyors of these gems, he returned to his room, thinking to vary at least the discomforts which he saw were to be inevitably his over the next few days. Beyond the rudimentary aspects of the pearl fisheries, he had learned nothing of the whereabouts or even the existence of his quarry
Once in his room, locating the great pearl seemed far less important than coming to grips with his more immediate difficulties. His ankles were covered with already bloated leeches. Previous experience in the Himalayas had taught him that a lit cigarette, pressed strategically on their backs, often compels them to release their grip. Once this was done, and he was freed from this annoyance, he sat in the only chair in the room, and began his battle with the flies. They came at him from every direction. Having had no previous experience with such devils, he began to despair. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. He opened to see his dear friend, Gorashar.
“Lemon juice,” he said as he sprayed Holmes’s face and head with a squirter. The flies disappeared instantly.
“I must say, Watson, that except for my happiness at greeting you on a number of occasions, I was never so happy in my life at seeing another human being. After receiving my message, Gorashar had taken the first available train to Ceylon. Once arrived in Pearl Town, he had located “the Englishman in the bazaar” in a matter of minutes. I had not seen him in almost a year and after we exchanged pleasantries, I told him of my mission.”
Gorashar’s face darkened. “This pearl is no longer in Pearl Town. It is in Trincomalee, now in the hands of the Atkinson brothers, famous dealers in gemstones.”
Gorashar already knew much, and Holmes asked him to pursue his inquiries as diligently and as discreetly as possible. Gorashar said that he would report to him that night all that he could discover. Holmes felt relieved, for Gorashar, unlike “the Englishman in the bazaar” could do many things and go many places without attracting inordinate attention.
Gorashar left, and Holmes took a rickshaw directly to the circuit house to his meeting with Vansittart. A peon informed him that Vansittart would see him in the inner garden at once.
The garden of the circuit house was a small English oasis, filled with flowers and trees, obviously well attended. In the shade in one corner sat two men dressed in white, the attire of the colonial servant. The older of the two nodded to Holmes as he entered.
“Welcome, Mr. Holmes, to Ceylon. I am Anthony Vansittart and this is my successor, somewhat recently arrived himself, Mr. Arthur Wellesley.”
“My name should be used sparingly in public, if at all,” said Holmes, “for even though some of my enemies may now have gathered that I am still alive, they do not necessarily know where I am. For all purposes here in Ceylon, I am Roger Lloyd-Smith, archaeologist, here on assignment from the University of London.”
“Forgive my indiscretion, Professor.”
As he spoke, Holmes observed both men closely, and took a long look round the garden. Vansittart was the older, a large man, tall and stout, with a full head of white hair under his straw hat, florid of face, in many ways an unmistakable Englishman in the tropics. His speech was that of the seasoned government servant, knowledgeable and sympathetic, and his blue eyes appeared to be without guile. Wellesley, a far younger man, was very different. In his early thirties, he was in some ways a kind of half man, hair neither light nor dark, a face not unpleasant but of no strong character, and of medium build. He looked as though he had been ill, for he was overly pale, and his eyes were sunken and bloodshot. They showed a certain weakness, and when he spoke Holmes saw that his teeth had been ruined, most probably by the overuse of intoxicants and opium.
“You should know,” continued Vansittart, “that I shall be leaving rather quickly—in one week, to be exact—for England. I have been here for three years, and I return home having completed this, my last assignment. In your work, you will be aided primarily by Arthur here. He has been briefed fully on the task given to you, and has my full confidence.”
“Thank you. I often work alone and unaided, but I of course shall avail myself of your help as events unfold. What is the latest report on the pearl?”
“Our information is still rather sketchy and incomplete,” said Wellesley. “And somewhat contradictory. The early reports, gathered by our agents in the bazaar, stated that the pearl had been found here at Pearl Town by a young Tamilian woman, Thyagamma by name. She had been asssigned to sort through a large vat of molluscs by her father, an expert pearl diver by the name of Nelusko, in whose share of the harvest the pearl was located. She brought the pearl to her father as soon as she found it, and the two immediately left their quarters, a small hut on Tank Street not far from here, and absconded. They have not been seen, except for a report that they had been sighted travelling by foot on the road to Trincomalee.”
“Trincomalee,” said Holmes,” still then the home of the Atkinson brothers, the chief gem merchants of the Indian world.”
“Precisely. I am astonished that you would know of them.”
“Some time ago, I was consulted on the disappearance of a star sapphire, a case in which they played a large role.”
“Since that time, there has been a change in the firm of which you may not be aware,” continued Vansittart. “The Atkinson brothers are gone and the firm sold to an Arab jeweller, one Abdul Latif, who has shrewdly kept the old name of the firm. Latif is a stiff bargainer, and plays the game even harder than the Atkinsons. It is possible that the pearl is already in his possession. If it is, I would imagine that Nelusko and his daughter received next to nothing for it.”
Vansittart stopped short as his eyes caught sight of a tall, thin figure entering the garden, making his way slowly towards the shade of large bamboo grove at the other end. He wore Arab dress, and as he took his seat, Holmes caught a glimpse of his face. His features and colour were neither Indian nor Cingalese, and Holmes recognised him immediately.
“Arthur,” said Vansittart, “please do the needful. See that he lacks nothing.”
Wellesley got up and went over to the bamboo grove and sat down with the man. He took a deck of cards from his pocket, and the two men became immediately engrossed in the game.
“Arabi Pasha,” said Holmes. “the Egyptian leader. I had forgotten that he had been exiled here.”
Vansittart appeared somewhat surprised at his words.
“Yes, indeed. You are most observant. He is now in his twelfth year of imprisonment in this paradise, shall we say. You know his story. He foolishly issued a proclamation to his countrymen that he was inspired by the Prophet to free the country of its foreign rulers. His forces were defeated at Tel el-Kabir and he was taken prisoner. Condemned to death by our tribunal, his sentence was later commuted to l
ife in exile. So far Allah and the Prophet have chosen not to free him. He has been one of my most onerous tasks, a heavy ball and chain, for in my three years here, he has been with me almost constantly. Wherever I have gone, he has come accompanied by two guards, who watch him while I sleep. Poor man, he wants nothing more than to return to his country, to spend his last days with his family somewhere in sight of the Nile. But Government refuses any commutation of his life sentence. For someone from the desert, the tropical climate of Ceylon is particularly difficult. And so he quietly plots his escape as he plays cards all day. Despite our best efforts, he seems to communicate regularly with elements friendly to his cause. How he sends his messages I haven’t a clue. Twice he has almost made his escape, but he has not been successful in my time, thank God.”
“He will make it this time easily, under Wellesley,” said Holmes.
Vansittart’s eyes narrowed. “Again, you are most observant. Despite his illustrious lineage and the remark expressing my confidence, Wellesley is really not up to the usual standard, I’m afraid. He arrived here just a month ago, sent in disgrace from Burma, where he became enmeshed in a scandal in Mandalay involving the Governor’s daughter. Unfortunately, women are only one of his bad habits. The foreign office sent him here to keep him out of sight, with a severe reprimand that this was to be his last post should he fail to measure up. The Pasha’s escape would of course end his career. But so far, Wellesley’s behaviour has been impeccable, though I must tell you that, as I leave, I have some other more worrisome concerns, and I do not think that Wellesley will be able to deal with them.”
“What are they?” Holmes asked.
Vansittart leaned forwards to make sure that he was not overheard.
“Ceylon, my dear professor, as you must have seen even in the short time you have been here, has every appearance of an island paradise. I have come to love it and respect its people. But it would be the height of folly not to realise that our presence here is deeply resented. Having defeated the kings of Kandy over a half century ago, we have managed the island for our own purposes, for tea, rubber, pearls, of course, and for men and women to do our work. We delude ourselves about these dark-skinned natives. We love how they bow and scrape, with their heads bent low, their noses to the ground, call us master, and serve our every need. But given the chance, they will rise up and cut us to ribbons, as they once did in India. And there is now an evil presence on the island, one who moves about constantly and is so clever that it is difficult to apprehend him or to fathom his intentions. He is in touch with every unhappy element here: King Rama IV and his family, who form the sad remains of the Kandyan dynasty, and the leaders of the growing discontented classes in Colombo and other cities, and the Pasha himself.”
“Who is he?” asked Holmes.
“One of our countrymen, a gentleman by the name of Sebastian Moran, late of the Indian army. You may have heard of him. He is an old India hand and Shikari.”
Holmes smiled inwardly. “Tell me more,” said he.
“There is much still to learn, and precious little to tell, at least from my own experience. I met him soon after his arrival just a year ago. Before that, I gather he had been in the western Himalayas, his usual hunting grounds. But India became too hot for him. Wanted by the local police for attempted murder in Simla, he escaped and arrived here, where he has been protected by several friends in high places, who refuse to believe anything evil of him. Since he is faultless in manners and education, and his older brother is a loyal soldier who served heroically in Afghanistan, he is easily believed. He unfortunately has gained the full confidence of Sir Edward Gordon, the Governor. And Wellesley adores him. Moran was born here, in Colombo, the son of an early tea planter. He left after his father and mother were killed during the Kandyan rebellion. Following in his brother’s footsteps, he joined the Indian army, where he became one of its great marksmen. Tall, powerfully built, and of great intelligence, it is only the cruel look in his steel grey eyes that gives any warning of his criminal disposition. Of considerable means, he returned here from London a year ago and purchased a large house in Colombo, which he furnished lavishly. He lived there alone except for a friend, a young Swiss by the name of Giacomo, who has since left on a tour of India. I met Moran at his house once. I was ushered into the library, where I waited for him. He entered accompanied by two large wolfhounds, both of which he kept on tight chains. Otherwise they would have devoured me, I think. Our conversation began pleasantly enough. He had just been on an inspection tour of his property, he said, for there had been a burglary during the night. Alerted by his hounds, he had caught the thief, a young boy of fifteen who had dared to scale the walls and enter the house. Moran caught him easily and brought him into the very room in which we were sitting. It was then that I noticed a frightening transformation in his face, for he proceeded to tell me in sickening detail how he had beaten the boy to a pulp before releasing him. It was the obvious and intense pleasure that he took in a near-murder that made me sense that something was deeply wrong with this man, and that he might become a danger to all of us. I took my leave as soon as I could, and I shall never forget the contrast between the civilised library and the cruelty of Moran’s expression.”
“No charges were pressed?” asked Holmes.
“A thief is a thief is the common attitude here. The boy was found on the road outside Moran’s house and was taken to the local hospital. But he said nothing after his recovery and has since disappeared altogether.”
Vansittart spoke quickly in a low voice. Holmes did not reveal his own knowledge of Moran and his crimes, however, for fear that he should interrupt Vansittart’s account. In his mind’s eye, however, he returned instantly to the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, to the moment when Moran began throwing huge rocks down upon him.
“What else?” he continued. “He is an inveterate gambler, who plays constantly for high stakes. He rarely loses, but God help the winner, for Moran deals harshly with those who dare to best him. And he has a half sister, Franziska van Rhede, who aids and abets him in his crimes. Fortunately, she lives elsewhere, much of the time in Pondicherry, I believe, but visits him on occasion. I have never met her, but the natives are terrified of her, saying that she takes on the form of a gigantic bird of prey at will and goes soaring in the sky at sunset in search of victims.”
“Where is Moran now?”
“It is difficult to say. He rarely goes to Colombo these days, but spends most of his time camped at a place called World’s End. It is one of the most beautiful and dramatic places on the island. It is in the southern highlands, and is a kind of high plain, filled with the wild game that attracts him. At the end of the plain, however, is the most dramatic precipice in the world: a straight drop down of some five thousand feet. Moran hunts all day, feasts in the evening, and sleeps almost not at all. It is as if the inner cruelty dissipates somewhat in shikar. Otherwise, there would be more incidents like the one with the young burglar. Cruelty, gambling, shikar, high living. He needs constant replenishment of these nutrients, and he is not at all averse to criminal activity to meet his ends.”
Wellesley returned to the table at that moment, and Vansittart immediately changed the subject. “Perhaps,” he said, “the place for you to begin would be Pearl Town itself.”
“The Pasha wishes to speak to this gentleman,” said Wellesley.
“What about?” Holmes asked
“‘Archaeology. He seems to have noticed some similarities between the pyramids in Egypt and the ancient ruins of Ceylon.’”
“I shall be most happy to give him my views. By the way, Vansittart, please check the bottom of the Pasha’s tea cup before the bearer removes it. There is a message attached to it, I believe.”
Holmes left Vansittart with a surprised look on his face and went over to where the Pasha was sitting.
“Welcome to Ceylon, my dear professor,” said the Pasha. “I hope your stay is fruitful . . . and not too long.”
�
�I gather you would leave this paradise,” said Holmes.
“Earthly paradises are difficult for a devout Moslem,” he said with a smile, “and this one is more difficult than most. One of our great Arab travellers journeyed to India in the eleventh century. He begins his book by saying of the people in this part of the world that we have nothing to do with them and they have nothing to do with us. I am a man of the desert, who needs only enough water to keep alive and no more . . . but enough. Life has nothing for me now. My country is enslaved, and I, alas, shall never look upon the Nile again.”
Holmes studied the man closely as he spoke. Though he lacked for nothing as a prisoner, it was the very servicing of his needs that was destroying him. The Pasha was very thin, almost emaciated, and was clearly not in good health. His eyes were dull, his skin an unhealthy sallow colour, and Holmes judged that he consumed large amounts of opium, cocaine, and alcohol. Scars on what he could see of his arms supported this. He was obviously a weak and sickened man.
“You are destroying yourself with opium,” said Holmes.
The Pasha smiled. “You are right, but what of it? Before I came to Ceylon, I had never touched it, nor had I drunk a drop of liquor. Now, they are my constant companions, my only relief from the tedium and pain of exile. I cannot live without them. Yet, because of them I have terrible dreams. I flee from the wrath of Brahma through all the forests of Asia. Vishnu hates me, and Shiva lies in wait for me.”
